In the Class A Team
by That Fiery Halvie
Summary: Xandra Vardan and Francis Bonnefoy are two friends living in Paris, France. Despite living in the country of love, life is no piece of cake for either- they are hookers, and they only have each other to fall back on. That, however, will either bring the loving Frenchman and the fiery Brit together, or completely break them apart. Dedicated to Francisleduisant on Tumblr. o3o
1. The Elevator Doesn't Give a Girl a Lift

Xandra sighed heavily, wrapping her jacket around her slender frame as she waited for the rickety elevator to rise up to the loft where she could temporarily escape from the snowy backstreets of Paris. The redhead felt out of place in France, for she had grown up in Great Britain- London, to be specific. How she ended up across the Channel, she would never truly understand. But she was here, that was all that mattered; whether or not the fact was a good one. Her only concerns were warmth and comfort right now.

The lift jostled, opening to let in a man of around forty years. He nodded politely to the young woman, whom felt the sudden urge to grip the British Bulldog handgun that sat in her coat pocket. For obvious reasons, though, she just acknowledged his silent greetings. The gate of the lift shut again, rising yet again, but at a slower pace due to the added wait; the only sounds coming from the grating of the elevator shaft and the nervous gulp of the girl. The man broke the near-hush a few seconds later as he turned to face her. "Es-tu celui que je m'adresser pour avoir ... Un oreiller supplementaire?"

She pursed her lips as her English mind translated his request. He had asked her if she was the one he'd ask about getting "an extra pillow", a universal hotel code for a prostitute. She shook her head to confirm the negative. "I'm off duty," she informed, her voice unwavering. The man scoffed slightly, running his ringed hand through his rough hair- it was always the married ones that approached her, she figured it was because their married sex life fizzled out, and they in turn went after the spry and livelier ones.  
"C'mon, darling," he protested, winking a bit, "you make it worth the while, and I'll make it worth your while, you know?" Well, at least he spoke fluent English; that would possibly help her situation. But most likely not. The men loved to push the boundaries.

As if by divine intervention, the glorified crate stopped its ascent at her stop. "I'm off duty," she reaffirmed, walking out of the gate, sighing as he pinched her arse and called out that he could find an easier call girl anyday, and he would spoil her instead of "you, you bitchy little harlot!"

She shook her head as she turned the corner. There was no such thing as spoiling a service girl- she had to spoil to the scummy guys that pinched her arse and called her a slut as they came inside her, dressing and leaving the money on her boudoir as if afraid of touching her, despite the previous actions.

"Bloody idiots," she muttered, grabbing her door key from the breast of her corset. She just put the metal into the lock when the door swung open to reveal a blond man of roughly twenty-six. His blue eyes dulled with worry when he saw Xandra's indifferent expression; it always meant that she was just hiding her upset.

"Bonjour, Francis..."  
"Come in, petite," he said softly, closing the door behind her.


	2. Tea as Hot as her Temper

Within a few moments, the two were sitting at a cheap plastic table, a cup of tea in the redhead's hands, and one of coffee in the blond's. They sipped at the hot beverages in a heavy silence, neither wanting to be the instigator of the conversation that was bound to happen anyway. T'was the Frenchman who decided to just give up on waiting for the other to speak, asking, "what happened?" in a straight to the point fashion.  
Xandra huffed, setting the cup on the table with one hand and rubbing her face with the other. "Approached in the lift again," she muttered, "married man in his early forties... Didn't want to take no for an answer, pinched my arse... Swore..." She licked a droplet of tea off her bottom lip, waving off her entire little speech. "You know, the usual." She sighed, rolling her eyes, much to the blond's disapproval.

"Cherie, we may not be of a glamourous calling, but you are still a person... A person that deserves some respect, whether or not you believe i-" His sentence was cut off with the redhead's dry reply of "Oh, fuck it."  
A small wad of crinkled and dirty bills was tossed onto the tabletop, being grabbed back by the young woman but a second later- she was counting it out a couple times "I made seventy-six," she mumbled, "You?"  
"Just over one hundred..."  
"Lucky prick."  
"What is mine is also yours, petite," he whispered, pecking her forehead.  
"I have no desire to contract your Frenchness, tart," she retorted, smirking a bit. "Speaking of of preventing stuff, I'm going to take a shower. I need to feel clean again... Is the shower being wonky again?"  
"Oui."  
"Fuck it all to hell!" she swore, walking away and slamming the door shut behind her.  
"... La fille is attractive when angry..."

When the fiery redhead walked out of the bathroom, now clad in old skull and lace printed pyjamas, her roommate was sprawled out on the couch, reading a hentai manga that had been translated into French. Perhaps, if the job had been a bit more glamourous, it would have been perfect for Francis. Xandra knew shortly after they met, roughly five minutes into their meeting, that the blond was a flirty and sexual type... She had met him when she was walking the streets, too. In a way, it suited him perfectly, because he was polite about it... Unless he was just being crude to crack a grin from someone. He had started out being a painter that specialised in artistic nudes, but when the money came up short, he would do modeling at the art school for the students to reference. It had been a win-win situation. He got paid, and the students had a self-proclaimed French sex god to paint. That, and he was roughly the same age as them, so they occasionally had a fuck buddy. The problem? He couldn't be always used as a model, they needed to change it up. So his appointments at the school slowly became fewer and fewer until he stopped being called altogether. He had nothing to fall back on, so he sold his passion: sexual passion. It somehow managed to not tear apart his romanticized view of the deed.

"You better not be touching yourself on that couch," Xandra muttered, rolling her eyes playfully.  
"Non, cherie. I'd rather be touching you~ Ohonhon."  
"Nice try," she retorted, curling up on the couch, "I'm not your cherie. I'm your roommate you took in when you learned I was homeless."

A weak frown crossed the Frenchman's face. Setting down the book, he pulled the other into his arms, rocking her like a young child despite the fact that they were early twenty-something year olds. A small sigh sounded from the blond's lips as he held the girl against him. "It's a term of endearment..."  
"I'm not all that dear, Francis." 


	3. That Bloody Englishman

The Frenchman knew he should stay at home, holding the girl until she either fell asleep or shoved him to the floor so she could listen to her little CD player in peace; most likely the latter, as she didn't sleep all that well anymore, and tried to live in her world of songs when she wasn't turning tricks for the men who paid her. But no, he couldn't simply stay and comfort. She was a call girl, he a call boy, and his cell phone had started ringing to alert him that a client wanted his services for the evening. So Francis had to hope a kiss on the cheek would suffice for the evening as he dressed to suit the demands of the man on the phone- a skirt, lacy panties, fishnet stockings, and high heels. He sighed heavily as he walked out of his room. It's not that he despised crossdressing, but that the clients almost viewed the street-walker wearing it as a sign of shame and submission, like it was wrong to be a woman.

"A call from that thick-browed English chap?" she asked, frowning when she saw the slutty outfit peeking out under his trenchcoat.  
He gave her a look to imply 'yes' as he looked into the cracked mirror on the front room wall, applying a red shade of cheap, oily lipstick. "'e loves to 'ave me look completely skanky. I t'ink it's because I am French, and he is a dyed in the wool English... No offense," he added, applying some more cosmetics to his face.  
"None taken." She bit down on her lip as she remembered the last time he came home after servicing Brows. Her roommate was thinking about the same thing.

Xx

_The Frenchman had barely made it into the doorway of the motel room when the slightly intoxicated Brit shoved him against the tacky wallpaper, holding him there with one elbow as he lifted the hem of Francis' skirt with a finger and thumb. He smirked when he discovered that the other had gone with just the skirt, as per his request. "Yeh a little harlot. Yeh know that, frog?" he spat, smirking all the while._  
_"Oui, monsieur..."_  
_"Excuse me?" he snapped, shoving the hired man onto the mattress._  
_"I... I mean, yes sir..."_  
_"And don't bloody forget it. Your frog language won't get you paid..." He paused, as if changing his mind about something. "On your knees, frog. On the carpet. And take off that bloody jacket..."_

_Francis nodded, doing as he was told, and undoing the other blond's pants before taking him in his mouth- much to the Englishman's delight._

_The French blond came home that morning covered in hickies and bruises..._

Xx

Francis sighed, opening the front door to leave. "I'll be home soon."


End file.
